It figures only an Abagond post can coax me back onto the Internet while I’m still nursing an injury.  A freak accident with a sex toy — just joking! 

Seriously, though, people.  Check out this link to read Abagond’s blog post titled “Maxwell” (February 11, 2011), here on WordPress: http://abagond.wordpress.com/2011/02/02/maxwell/.

As with most of Abagond’s posts, you get the brilliance of his intellect and the insightful and always entertaining comments from his faithful readers. Hats off — or in my case, ACE bandages off — to you, Abagond!  For the reasons stated in Abagond’s post and for so many more, Maxwell is so truly a sexy human being.  He even oozes sex when he twitches his hand as he reaches for that high note that might become elusive if he keeps smoking (what, I won’t say).  I don’t care how he styles his hair, or if he starts sporting a baldie, or if he goes back to his springed-out ‘fro.  I don’t give a damn whether he’s wearing a suit, jeans, pajamas or just a thong — or, good God Almighty, nothing at all!

My point is:  Maxwell’s entire being is purposeful and generous; handsome and lovely.  He’s got the perfect balance of yin and yang.  I even love the scar on his face — not how he got it, of course, but how that flaw adds to his slightly rugged deliciousness.  Like he’s a bad boy gone good.

Ooooh, did those words just escape mine lips?

Only an Adonis can release such inhibitions in the, uh, this, observer.  M — as he is affectionately known among his many adoring female fans — is so much more than the Isaiah Mustafa of the neo-soul, “grown & sexy” genre.  If his essence could be bottled, I’d be bankrupt.  Well, I’m nearly there anyway, but I’m just saying …

Does M have bedroom eyes or does he have on-the-hood, over-the-dining-room-table, in-the-bleachers eyes, or what?  He has soul-searching, Eros-revealing, temperature-raising, clothes-shedding, panties-shredding eyes.  At his late-September 2009 concert at Madison Square Garden, M brought us all out of the rain and made me do what a decade previously only Prince (or whatever the Artist was calling himself then) could do:  make me lose my damned mind.

M was singing “Ascension (Don’t Ever Wonder)” when, suddenly, he hopped up on a platform. That athletic move placed him 10 feet away from me (yeah, only me!).  He was so close that I could smell his perspiration.  Mmmmm … it was like M-brosia.  Yeah!  I was dancing in front of my $175 seat, dangerously close to the row’s edge and slinking my long neck scarf to the beat.  Then he done did it.  M winked at me with a smile as he sang the lyric “You’re the highest of the high.”  I was high all right — on an unobtainable-love jones.

When that man-god glanced up at me, with the sweat on his face gleaming like the breasts bursting out of my bra, it was somewhat like that scene in West Side Story.  I’m referring to the pivotal moment when Antone glimpses María, and María glimpses Antone, and the starcrossed lovers’ magic parts the crowd at the high-school dance.  Then it’s just the forbidden pair.

Well, never mind that 1961 movie masterpiece, even though the Garden is technically on the West Side.  It was just M and I because our star-fan-crossed magic didn’t just part the MSG audience; it shoved all those folks and their popcorn aside.  M winked at me indiscreetly with an eye so sparkling amid the stagelights that it out-Mayweathered Floyd’s pair.  It may have been a bit cold in the Garden that night — as if that were the real reason for sporting diamond-hard nipples — but there was no “chilli” reception from moi.  I nearly choked myself with that scarf, and suddenly all my past joking about Isadora Duncan’s fate wasn’t so funny anymore.

After I recovered and M jumped back down to the main stage, I sat down awk…ward…ly (gurrrls, you-know-what-I’m-sayin’).  Then I began screaming so hard for that suited-down, sweaty man to do things to me that only the characters in my erotic short stories do.  The boyfriends and husbands of the women seated in the row below mine turned around to sneer.  What, had my cheering for M emasculated the would-be lovers, or were they angry that this cheerleader’s pom-pons were concealed?  Or maybe they actually believed the exaggerated effects of those K-Y Intense ads on late-night television (except for Black channels, on which the ad also runs in the daytime on weekends)?  Or, better still, could it really be that they also had paid $175 but times two, plus dinner, and all that math added up to zero probability of either sex or (the men’s) masturbation that night?

Unlike some lovemen’s concerts, a Maxwell show isn’t foreplay; it’s competition.  When the guys swiveled their heads Exorcist-style in my direction another set of deafening screams later, I pre-empted their satanic rumbling by crossing my forefingers and burned into their evil souls a knowing look that said:  “Yeah, and now M has raised the bar, so you’re going to have to step it up tonight and ‘stop the world’ or get a fistful without the tears.”  Maybe I said that in Latin, but all I know is I got no more dirty looks from the “pea” nuts gallery.

Not to quote James Ingram, but just once I’d love to watch M perform his rare (underground) hit “Lock You Up N’ Love Fa Days.”  That midtempo song is part of the European-distributed CD suite titled Til the Cops Come Knockin’:  The Opus (a/k/a The Opus).  If you don’t have The Opus, brothas and sistas, you got to get your own!  Make sure you get the five-track and not the three-track, though.

If I ever get to experience M perform “Lock You Up,” I can’t promise I won’t get locked up for doing that to someone … that is, anyone not clinging to a girlfriend or wife in the audience.  I also can’t promise I won’t rip off my panties and fling them at the soulman when he sings, “I can’t leave you alone, baby” at the end of that naughty song.  Then again, I’m a better catcher than a pitcher, so I’d just let them cling to me.

(In my best Barbara Feldon/”Agent 99″ voice)  Ohhhhh, Maaaaxwelllll

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